Listen
by Lael Mae
Summary: Overtime, England becomes obsessed with America. UK-US. Rape/noncon. Kink meme de-anon.


De-anoning from the Hetalia Kink Meme.

* * *

><p><strong>one. after a talk.<strong>

He's fallen asleep again – arms nestling his head, burly jacket rumpled over his large frame –

Go back to work.

But I can't.

Another glance, _please_, his way. Still asleep, quiet (unusual), no one really pays mind. I turn my head back, look down to the granite-coloured table before me.

How long has it been? I'm not sure to what time I'm referring. To how long I've been watching him? Thinking of him? Wishing of him? Of times I've invited him over? The last time I have invited him over–?

Out of the corner of my eye, he shifts, grumbles. Someone invisible scolds him to get back to work. I suspect he doesn't make eye-contact (for I am respectfully compliant with my own agenda) when the someone asks 'are you alright?' Of course he is. He'll weakly smile (with that lovely cut at the corner of his mouth) and repeat my thought.

I smile. I pull out a sheet, for this dearly beloved, and scratch a mark with my black ball-point pen next to the category 'obedience' and consequently mark the date.

It's nice that he's starting to listen to me.

**two. records.**

"Wh-Why won't you listen to me?"

"You're too controlling! What's with these things anyway?" America tosses my sheets – _records_ – across my desk and study. Picks one up, "'Obedience?'" and tosses it. "'With others!'" Tosses, steps on. "'Visits me!'" Rips in half and the pieces land to the floor. "'Eats my food,' 'sleeps with me,' 'does his work,' 'plays video games,' 'eats hamburgers,' 'has coffee,' 'smiles at me,' 'falls asleep during meetings' – seriously, England! What the _hell_ are these?" His face is so red, heated and angry. My poor child.

I reach a hand out to grab my records, but he steps back, brows furrowed and teeth bared – too wild, unrelenting, please just submit. (I won't keep these anymore if you will… please?)

"No." Pauses. "Get rid of these, England… they're weird." He looks to the scattered papers on the floor. 'Being stupid.' 'Cute.' 'Fights.' 'Gifts.' 'Tea-time.' 'Watch movie.' 'Take a walk.' His eye catches a paper, I see it too, but I back away when he moves to pick it up. It's turned around and he points to the category: 'injuries.' "This, England. Why do you keep this?" A growl.

I look to the side, feeling hot, tugging at my green sweater vest. "I-In case I have to treat a cut or bruise…"

"Oh. Like this one here?" America grimaces as he points to the cut on the corner of his mouth. I stare blankly at him.

"That was an accident."

"When you slapped me, your nail cut my mouth. Even if it was an accident, you still haven't treated it."

Because you deserve it.

A thick silence.

America's body shrinks with a heavy sigh. His attention is directed to the window pouring in white light. "England… Just get rid of these."

"I will."

I won't.

**three. more and more.**

America is going to get fat.

America might get behind in his work.

America is playing too many video games,

America needs to spend more time with me.

America should eat more of my food.

America needs to be cuter.

America should stop drinking awful coffee.

America should take more walks with me.

America should hug me.

America should kiss me.

America should have sex with me.

America should listen to me.

**four. idiot.**

"A-America," I fumble, tugging the sleeves of my grey suit. "D-Do you mind i-if we take a walk? Eat together? M-Maybe you can come visit me too…"

"Huh?" He blinks his cerulean eyes at me, swallows a bite of his hamburger, and smiles. "Aww, of course, England! Lemme finish my snack with Canadia here."

"It's Canada," a small voice mutters.

"Ah – oh – oh, sure." I blush, cringe, and briskly walk away. I blink to retain my tears.

Idiot.

I grab a wall to stabilize my quaking legs.

I-Idiot.

Listen to me. You're not supposed to be with someone else. No no no. You can't.

I grind my teeth and grimace.

_Idiot._

**five. colour: true.**

"Y-You're only mine, you hear?"

I can't help the tears. My vision is blurred. My mind unclear.

"I – I said not to! Idiot!" Thrust. "I said 'no!' Why don't you listen to me?"

He gasps out, choked, pained. I want to kiss away the wetness from his eyes – but I won't be able to reach. I briefly saw his blue eyes – but briefly. He hides them now.

I feel myself hot within him, full and tight and raw. Sorry. I move in him again. A cry. (I don't know if it was of hurt or pleasure.) I respond with a groan (feeling pleasure myself).

This – this needs to be done.

No.

Yes.

I tighten my eyes, bite my lip. Sweat drips down my brow.

Move, he screams (raw). I lower my head, breathe huskily against his collarbone before locking on to the junction of his neck and shoulder with a bite. Another scream. I feel something wet graze my ear, knowing too well what it is.

I continue to move inside him, feeling close of my own release, but far from my love for America.

At least he's compliant now (although it did take some while, white lies, an empty promise, and a paralyzing potion).

Now, America, you should realize why I did these things. I need to keep an eye on you. You're wild, untamed, vulnerable, young, and boundless. I want to twist all those around – no, no. Just keep you in my own collection (be a doll on my shelf, a servant to my house, a lover in my bed, a friend with boundless loyalties, my pain reliever, mine).

You'll be my damaged spoils –

My love's keeper.


End file.
